


baby, be gentle

by debilitas



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: He doesn’t know you, the fear tells him. Fear has teeth and claws and they’ve buried themselves into his flesh so deep the removal would kill him.But I know him.
Relationships: Crypto | Park Tae Joon/Makoa Gibraltar
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	baby, be gentle

There’s something vulgar about trust, Taejoon thinks. It’s been sharpened at both ends, sharp enough to cut, to dig into his back and twist inside the wound. 

Trust wasn’t always such an ugly thing. Rare, for sure, but still there, like a leak in the hull of a ship. Small enough to go unnoticed, but big enough to compromise its integrity. 

Makoa’s the first to offer a new perspective. Says that trust is a muscle, and like a muscle, can be neglected, weakened over time, but it never truly goes away.

If he’s right, Taejoon is sure his own is emaciated. Starved for attention and sore, screaming in protest when used.

He’s trying, though. Sits back in the armchair like he knows what he’s doing, snaps the cool metal off his throat so it can be touched. 

Makoa’s hand is foreign on the skin of his neck, fingers gentle and warm. It’d probably feel good— if he could bring himself to relax. 

Taejoon’s body is unbelievably tense, rigid and straight. The one perched above his is more imposing than arousing, making the air they share too thick to breathe.

“S’alright, yeah?” Makoa asks, before his lips stretch into a bashful smile. His eyes are dark and kind in the dim light. Nothing hidden in the pools of brown, no matter how hard Taejoon looks.

Then the other man’s thumb grazes the center of his throat, and Taejoon feels his eyes go wide. 

There’s a quiet voice in him, probably the same part craves touch the way a starving man’s belly aches for food, that tells him it’s safe. That this is far too gentle for strangulation, and Makoa’s looking down at him with utter reverence. Like he cares— really cares, in a way killers don’t.

There’s a second voice, though, much louder than the first. One that’s shouting conspiracies at him and has never been wrong before. It tells him that of course that isn’t real care in the man’s eyes, because Makoa doesn’t even know his name. What if _they_ sent him, weaponizing warmth and good looks to lull him into a vulnerable position? Teach him to trust just enough to—

Then the hand is gone. Makoa shuffles off of him, standing on shaky legs. Taejoon’s never seen the man hesitate, and finds it doesn’t suit him.

“Sorry ‘bout that, new guy.”

“I don’t understand,” Taejoon says slowly, honesty still foreign on his tongue.

Makoa laughs then, brief and incredulous. “Ya looked miserable. Ain’t nothing wrong with tapping out.”

Taejoon is suddenly aware of his squared shoulders, deep frown, and white knuckle grip on the arms of the chair. He wears the posture of a man ready for attack rather than one in the throes of passion, and humiliation settles on him like a blanket.

He doesn’t know why he can’t get his mind and body to connect. Why one made him yearn and lust for an unobtainable man while the other is fueled only by survival. If he’s not weak, he is something far worse.

Makoa makes the move to leave when Taejoon forges a circuit between mind and muscle. He surges forward, fueled by a vague sense of what to do, and grips either side of Makoa’s arms. Squeezes the cotton of his shirt tight, anchoring him in place.

“You are a good man,” Taejoon says, throat dry as it’d be if he’d actually been choked. 

Makoa bows his head, resting a hand on Taejoon’s side. “Try to be.”

He’s warm. Warm and solid and the closest to _safe_ Taejoon’s ever been.

There’s so much he wants to say, but every word dies in his throat. Knows it wouldn’t be any easier in Korean, because the role he plays isn’t acquainted with the truth. Crypto and trust are strangers— and Makoa doesn’t know him as anyone else. 

Risking a glance upward, he’s met by a gentle, if not worried expression. His real name weighs heavy on his chest, a load he cannot carry alone.

_He doesn’t know you_ , the fear tells him. Fear has teeth and claws and they’ve buried themselves into his flesh so deep the removal would kill him.

_But I know him._

Taejoon knows Makoa in the way Crypto does; from behind a screen, from files, family trees, and eavesdropped conversations. It’s distant and cold. Too cold for such a man.

“Who are you?” He asks finally, a snapped wire searching blindly for any connection.

Makoa considers it for a moment, and Taejoon swears he sees the sparks.

“Just me.”

Then, electricity. Lighting up parts of Taejoon that had gone dark long ago, and he closes the distance between them.

Limbs free from their usual fidgeting, he reaches for Makoa’s face. Holds it tight, beckoning him ever closer, bottom lip quivering when he feels the man’s breath on it.

Makoa stops him. Stands and stares with the posture of hunger, but keeps a firm grip on Taejoon’s arms. It maintains the final boundary that remains, paper thin and threatening to tear.

“Only if you want.” His voice is impossibly deep now, speaking to Taejoon in what’s barely a whisper. 

“I want to,” he replies, faster than his mind could consider it. Just as the final syllable escapes, he has a name for the ache that’s plagued him for so long.

It’s _want_. The worst kind of craving that found no purchase in his hollow heart, until Makoa.

His first kiss is lightning. It reverberates through his entire body, changing it from within, and unbelievably brief. 

Makoa’s mouth presses to his, warm and soft and sweet, then it’s gone. Nose against ruddy cheeks, he holds Taejoon’s head in big hands. 

Never one to enjoy being watched, he reunites their lips. Introduces himself to soft hair, flushed skin, and trust. Doesn’t flinch when Makoa guides a hand down the side of his neck, avoiding the center of his throat, and caresses the muscle of his shoulder. Lets his eyes drift shut, feels no anxiety about what he may be missing. 

They both seem to remember the armchair, and how they got there. The tension, thick enough to cut with a knife, and the unsteady start to learning one another’s bodies.

Taejoon still wants to know. Wants to understand every curve of muscle and the scars on them, learn how and where he feels pleasure.

He can’t return to the chair. Its rough material and claustrophobic grasp, forcing one of them to hover over the other. He wants an even playing field, a meeting of equals, and finds it on a nearby wall.

Taejoon backs the other man against the wall, only because Makoa lets him do so. A pillar of a man is not so easily moved, unless he wants to be. 

He kisses with half the desperation he feels, hands pawing at miles of muscle. Makoa matches him, torso bent to be easier to reach, holding Taejoon’s head in his hands. A grunt, a moan, a harsh intake of breath before he speaks.

“There’s that fire,” Makoa breathes, smiling like he’s drunk.

Taejoon certainly feels it; blood molten in his veins and hot arousal pooled in his gut. Traces the shell of Makoa’s ear with his teeth, face flushed by a furious heat.

“Careful,” he says, voice stern. “Don’t get burned.” 

It’s a final warning, an offer to leave him and the pain that follows like a loyal dog. As long as Crypto must exist Taejoon can never offer safety or refuge, because he can’t give another man what he has none of.

Makoa laughs. Deep and warm, his entire body moving with it. Eyes crinkling at the corners with an inky tendril of hair spilling over his brow, and he’s the most beautiful man Taejoon’s ever seen.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he replies, and the silent agreement is made. Makoa will not ask for what cannot be given, and Taejoon will reacquaint himself with trust.

Then they’re kissing again, sharing an impossible heat that warms him down to the bone. Suppresses old instincts to falter when Makoa places a broad hand on his chest, over his heart. 

Seemingly content with the rhythm he feels, his expression shifts. They no longer need the wall.

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta’d so if theres a weird comma or something pretend u dont see it. im @gibraltane on twt


End file.
